


Mechanic Animals

by coldwarqueer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Character Study, M/M, POV Second Person, POV shift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-02-24 16:04:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2587505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldwarqueer/pseuds/coldwarqueer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Felix kisses you he leaves acid trails in his wake. // Pulling off his armor always was like pulling teeth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. That Boy is a Monster

He slinks through battlefields much like he does in the bedroom. Felix is a predator and slides through the sheets as a trained killer, venom on the tip of his silver tongue and sharp claws that dig into your hips when you touch. When Felix kisses you he leaves acid trails in his wake.

Your flesh tingles whenever Felix presses his thin lips over your skin. Felix is a localized drug and ten times the power with his tongue. The poison on your body eats away at you, burns into your heart and leaves him coiling in your ribcage.

You don't touch Felix. Touching Felix invites intimacy and makes this out to be more than what it is, which is business.

"Business?" he laughs from where he lays on his stomach, arms hugging the pillow and looking to you with eyes like radioactive waste. His eyes crinkle at the corner like he is about to speak, but he thinks better of it and instead leans over to touch you with his toxic lips.

The intimacy you crave is halted in favor of efficiency. You toss Felix on his back, rendering his poisonous defenses useless. He doesn't seem to want to defend himself anyway. His toes curl and his back arches and he hisses pleasantly through his fangs with his forked tongue, assuring you that everything you do to him is both expected and desired.

No matter how often he tells you the tattoo on his back is a fox tail you think a snake rattler would be more apt.

* * *

Felix hunts with you as his pack. You let him lead, give him the front, follow behind accordingly. The best way to clean up Felix's mess is to come in from behind, right after him. He always did have a habit of leaving a trail of blood.

Felix's kill is brutal and tiring. Exhaust the opponent, who is so much larger, so much stronger. Dodge and parry, stall for as long as possible, because Felix knows he will last longer. You hold the sniper, just in case. You know you won't need to step in.

There is nothing merciful about Felix's kill. There is nothing particularly comforting in thinking a force of nature is painless and quick. Felix plays with his meals before he consumes them whole, digging his hands into the bloody, open body and pulling the red parts out.

You watch Felix eat first, because he is the alpha.

* * *

Felix crunches bones on the battlefield like glass bottles under his boots that are far too big, makes them crackle and shift under his hooves. He moves with delicate grace, and at the same time with no regard to what lies underfoot.

Felix steps toe first, testing each place of footing with ease and less than a second of judgement before he decides to lean his weight on it. Your head ratchets to him with every step he makes that causes a particular sickening noise. You know he is doing it on purpose.

"Objective complete," you rattle into the comm. Felix's attention snaps to you across the clearing and his careful footing is halted, watching you behind his visor and stock still.

You watch him watch you until he finally lifts his finger to the comm on his helmet.

"I know that. In case you didn't notice, I was there."

How elegant.

* * *

Felix preens his feathers in bed, smooths himself down after he spreads his wings and stretches out among the sheets. He turns to hum and peer at you with round eyes that see through you.

Felix's feet press against your legs, talons sharp and cold beneath the blankets. He kisses you with sharp pecks, feeling over you with feather soft fingers. You pull your arm up around him; if only you had a leather guard to protect yourself from his sharp grip. Felix stretches over you with a wingspan as wide as he is long, saddles you, rolls on his hips until he perches just right.

He squawks when you grip him, slapping away your hands and leers at you with narrowed eyes. As he eases down on you for the second time that night he chirps with pleasure. You close your eyes, feel his sharp nails drag down your chest until you're sure you are bleeding. You push up into him, burying your face in his plumage, hands sliding along his slim body with hollow bones and soft spots beneath sinewy muscle. You shudder against him, let him feel the power he pulls from you with every tilt of his body.

He keens with delight as he comes down from the orgasm, fluffs up his feathers and relaxes on you, still soft and tight around you. You push into him, still rigid inside his body. You groan into the soft down around his neck that protects gentle parts vulnerable to death, until his soft body eeks another orgasm out of you.

You breathe hard against his skin from the peak, until you are coming down from the mountain of pleasure and melting against Felix as the warmth of his wings wraps around you from all sides. You curl around him, until your bodies meld and he nuzzles your neck. You close the gap between your lips and feel him chirp with delight at the attention.

He pulls up from you again and you can't help but smile as he spreads his wings again above his head, the picture of freedom atop you.

* * *

"You're disgusting."

"Want a bite?"

Felix is twirling a bloody heart in his palm, squeezing it and watching it pump blood. He has carried it as a trophy for over an hour. Felix watches you with feline eyes, shining like beacons in the dark. Your helmet's night vision does little to excuse the terrifying outline of his raised hackles.

"You're disgusting," you repeat, if only to hammer it in that you will not bow to his incessant need for consumption. Law of the jungle be damned, Felix kills for fun. He kisses the heart, lips coming away red.

Felix tears into the muscle. He is a predator ripping apart a carcass, maw dripping and wet in the soft light of your HUD. The soft tissue of the heart rips apart in the wake of his wet fangs. Felix doesn't even finish it. He swallows one bite and tosses the ruined organ away, his broken toy rolling in the dirt. He licks his paws and teases the blood from his lips, cleaning his whiskers.

Felix is a wild animal. You have no doubt that, given the chance, he would rip into you too.


	2. You Are Not A Robot

Locus' arm pumps the shotgun quick and smooth, slides along the gunmetal with practiced ease. He calls out his coordinates to you, leaving you to roll out of the way of an incoming bullet. You spy out of the corner of your HUD the rapt attention Locus pays to his weapon, moving with it, protecting it, gripping just enough that should it fly from his hands it wouldn't rip his fingers off, as weapons are prone to doing.

You tackle him. He is gunpowder as your match lights him up, rolls him out of the way of a frag grenade. He throws his body with you, arm recoiling with the shot he blasts off over your shoulders at an enemy that had come too close. He embodies his weapon, moving with it and letting it take control. You admire the fluidity in which he recovers from every shot, blasting off another as quickly as possible.

He is back on his feet and jumping for cover to reload. You take the chance to fend off upcoming hoards of enemies too stupid to recognize you have bottlenosed them.

"Felix!" You twist your neck too late and then you are on the ground as an explosion goes off. They must have stuck a plasma grenade to your cover when you weren't looking.

The explosion did more to them than it did to you. Locus shields you with his body, unwavering and firm, body of steel resting on top of you without a single sign of weakness. You shove him off, redfaced beneath your helmet, and pick up your gun.

When the battle is won and you are both assured your injuries are minimal, you remove Locus' helmet and press up on your tiptoes to catch him off guard in a kiss.

Locus tastes of gunpowder and you press against the plating on his armor, fingers feeling out the ribs of his armor and searching for triggers and gunmetal. You smirk against his lips, eyes shut as he roughs his arms around your waist, pulls you in.

Kissing Locus after battle always seems to flick the safety off.

* * *

The winters on Chorus are unforgiving, moreso than even the summers. Your safehouse deep in the reaches of Federal territory is even colder, and your armor's climate control has been broken for months. You don't mind it, especially in the hotter, more humid regions in New Rep territory. The fan that cools your armor extensions is as close to AC as you will get, when in the presence of Kimball and her tiny army.

But you are not with Kimball, and the fan that cools your armor extensions only makes you colder. The bodysuit does little to shield you, despite how it is advertised to keep soldiers warm even in the deadest of winters. Stone cold liars, all of them.

Locus is warm.

He insists on fixing your armor, but he never gets around to it. Instead he curls around you in bed, heaped with blankets made out of an itchy material you would rather not name. His heart whirs in his chest when you rest your ear against him.

Your hands rest on his hips when you kiss and Locus pulls you close until your bones grind together. You tell him that flesh doesn't fit well into slots that are meant to have machine parts. He seems endlessly amused by your conclusions.

Fingers press over the buttons of his body, programming him with codes that come from a manual you are sure you have read before. Locus breathes into you with soft noises that a machine could never replicate. You don't tell him that. It ruins the illusion.

Underneath the blankets is warm. Locus is a convenience, and the intimacy shared between you leaves you both sated and suffocating. You promptly prod at his chest, pressing an imaginary button endlessly. He glares at you. " _What_?"

You huff and bury your face into his chest, still pushing on his skin. "Dispense coffeeeee."

With an amused snort, he pushes you out of bed and rolls over. What a jackass.

* * *

"Take it off," you tell Locus. His head ratchets towards you, peering at you through the visor of his helmet. You are sure he has an incredulous look on his steely face. He always does when you request these things of him. "Did you hear me? I said take it off."

You leave no room for argument. Locus knows this. He is slow to comply, but soon he is peeling off the armor, clasp by clasp, until he is in nothing but his helmet and his bodysuit. You turn on your heels, until you can grab his throat. You feel him suck in a breath beneath your fingers as you stare at him through slitted eyes.

"Take. It. Off."

Locus doesn't speak to you as he twists the helmet off, meeting your sharp gaze with his own dark eyes. The bodysuit comes away, his second skin coming to light beneath it. His steely muscles flex when your fingers splay out on his throat, rubbing instead of squeezing on the ridges of his neck. His armor may as well be his skin; beneath his armor is nothing but vulnerability and secrets. The very aspects of himself he wants to hide.

The dark sage of his eyes, they match his armor, trace your footsteps. You think he must still be trying to use his HUD to follow your feet. You press yourself against him, fingers needling at his iron resolve and the walls he puts up around himself.

"Not so hard, was it?"

Pulling off his armor always was like pulling teeth.

* * *

Locus is a wall standing between you and your fun. He pushes against you with the force of a tank, rolling right over you as you attempt to draw out the mission for your own amusement. His arm coils around you; a reminder that he will not move without orders, and by extension neither will you.

After the mission you watch him crumple to the ground, clutching at his side, where the gap in his armor revealed Kevlar. Bloody Kevlar. You don't rush to him, though your heart speeds up in your chest.

You help him stand, help him apply biofoam, help him back to the pelican. "You're not a tank," you tell him, one hand curling around his shoulders to help him to his feet. He heaves a sigh against you, the plaster of his armor heavy like metal.

"I never said I was." His voice grates on your ears and you have no time to listen to his excuses as you shut him down, sit him on the bench and strap him in to keep him from moving.

"If only I had the keys to turn you off," you muttered, shaking your head.

"I'm not a tank," he parrots, as if it would keep you from making silly jokes. It definitely doesn't.


End file.
